


Auckland

by Basingstoke



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-16
Updated: 2011-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:02:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Basingstoke/pseuds/Basingstoke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Douglas discovers that Martin has hidden skills.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auckland

Martin woke up feeling bad. Very bad. Very, very bad. He tried to think of another, more vehement adjective, but remained blearily stuck on "bad." His head hurt so much there were tears in his eyes.

"Here."

And Douglas was in the room. Brilliant.

"Are you all right, Skip?"

And Arthur, speaking in what he thought was a whisper. It lacked a certain element of quietness.

"Martin. Wakey wakey." Martin heard a rattle by his head and cracked an eyelid. Oh, that was Douglas setting down a glass of fizzy water.

Martin drank it. Fizzy water, good.

"You slept heroically, considering. I may have to try your method."

"Considering what, Douglas?" Arthur asked.

"Considering that you talk in your sleep, Arthur."

"Gosh! What do I say?"

"Seven thousand words on the subject of cake."

"Wow! I love cake!"

"I know," Douglas said heavily.

Martin pried his eyelids open again. This time they managed to stay up. Two beds, one occupied by himself, Douglas sitting on the other. And a child's rollaway cot, occupied by Arthur. "Mruh?" Martin asked.

"You have no head whatever for little water," Douglas said.

"Mreh?"

"Vodka, my lad. Vodka."

"Muh."

"Buck up. Only three more days in balmy Anchorage before we return to the welcoming bosom of the mother country." Douglas stood. "Sleep it off. Meanwhile, I'll be in the neighbourhood local, winning enough money at pool to get Arthur his own room."

"Murh!"

"Yes, it's come to that." Douglas shrugged into his coat and threw his scarf dashingly around his neck. "If I don't come back, I've eloped with a polar bear."

Martin closed his eyes.

*

Martin felt nearly better by dinnertime, just in time to help Douglas settle Arthur into his new room. "Me next, I suppose?" Martin said.

"Oh, I find our cohabitation humiliating in principle, but in action you're a largely inoffensive sleeping partner."

"Oh," Martin said, touched. "Thanks."

"Don't let it go to your head." Douglas reclined on his bed. "What did you two do while I won our freedom?"

"Helped Arthur clean the plane. Gave it a good hoover, got that weird stain out of 2A, replaced the gaffer tape."

"And Gertie is a pretty girl again."

"Like a granny in a ball gown, but we got her lipstick on straight, anyway." Martin stretched out also. "What are your plans now? Finding the next Mrs. Richardson?"

"No... I thought I'd keep an eye on you, actually."

"Me?" Martin raised his eyebrows.

"You owe me," Douglas said.

"Oh, the vodka? I don't--here, let me see." Martin reached for his wallet, sitting limp and nearly empty on the nightstand.

"No, actually. That was gifted, and not by me."

Martin felt his stomach sink. "By whom?"

"Daisy."

"Daisy?"

"Daisy." Douglas pulled his mobile from his pocket. He displayed a picture of Martin (one eye mostly closed, smiling like an idiot, clearly drunk off his arse) siting very close to a tall, burly, bearded lumberjack type. "He took quite a shine to you."

Martin sighed. "Not again." He closed his eyes in embarrassment and waited for Douglas to kick off the sarcasm.

"You owe me your man-ginity," Douglas said. "The petals to your brown flower. Your..."

"Well, if I still had it, I'd be sure to thank you."

"...bearded innocence..." Douglas paused. "Martin."

"You heard me." Martin looked at him and shrugged. "I am straight, I just... when I get drunk and try to pull... I only ever pull men. It's not what I intend, but it's what happens. That's why I get drunk in private." Well, that and the fact that he couldn't afford pub prices. Even the off-license was a bit of a stretch. Car boot was more his level.

Douglas's eyebrows were raised in a highly skeptical manner.

"I mean, I haven't been drugged or anything--and I've enjoyed myself, I guess--and it's not--well, go ahead, let's hear it," Martin muttered. "We've got nothing better to do." His head hurt. He wasn't in the mood to be teased, but better now, before Douglas had time to think of something _really_ cutting.

Douglas let his breath out. "It's an embarrassment of riches. I scarcely know where to start."

Martin waved his hand in the air. Come on, then.

"You missed your calling with the van work. You should start up an escort service for lonely bears."

"Really."

"You could work out of your van, in fact. Line it in flannel and put in a kerosene heater and some sheepskins."

"Mm-hm."

"I should get you the number of my old friend Smitty. He's loaded since that baggage cart took his foot off," Douglas mused.

Martin finally found his rejoinder: "And how do you know I'm not gay? You could have stepped between me and the love of my life."

Douglas looked over. "Not after eight vodka tonics. You start singing after two glasses of wine," he said, unexpectedly sober.

And that wasn't mocking, that was real concern. "Oh, well," Martin said.

Douglas folded his hands across his chest and cleared his throat. "How much alcohol does it take to turn Jonathan Rhys Davies into Cate Blanchett, anyway?"

"I've never managed to count. Between two and eight drinks, apparently, which is a bit of a spread."

"Captain Crieff, secret heartbreaker. Loving and leaving. Turning men's heads and turning your back. A string of tear-soaked beards from Anchorage to Auckland."

"Only two had beards, actually," Martin said.

"Of how many?"

"Five." Martin stood and fetched himself a glass of water from the tap. He would have liked a cup of tea, but in a dump like this, he was thankful it had plumbing.

"And how many girlfriends?"

"None of your business!"

"Less than five, I surmise," Douglas said, "So if you're such a success with the gents, why not just..." He waved his hand. "Have done? Take the plunge?"

"Because I'm straight?"

"In vino veritas."

"But in potato, poppycock."

A flicker of a smile crossed Douglas's face. That was a rather good one, Martin congratulated himself. "Surely a cock in the hand is worth all those birds in the bush?" Douglas said.

Martin snorted. "Men don't have breasts! Besides, when you're lying there the morning after, with a bloke cuddled up to your back and..." Martin shook his head, thinking about strong arms embracing him, chest hair tickling his spine, beard rash on his thighs, the pleasant ache of well-used genitals...

"Yes?" Douglas prompted after a silent moment.

"Hm?"

"It was the morning after, with a gentleman holding you in his arms?"

"Oh, yes, that's rather nice, actually," Martin said. He frowned. "I've lost my train of thought."

"Well," Douglas said. "Let's get some dinner. Carolyn's allotted us.... two pounds each, which converts to, let me see, three dollars and twenty cents. We can each afford a bagel if we don't go overboard on the schmear."

"I think I saw a place offering moose foot soup, a dollar a bowl," Martin said.

Douglas shuddered. "Fortunately, I draw a salary." He picked up his wallet, far, far fatter than Martin's. "My treat. Fair exchange for the boundless fountain of mirth you've provided me with this evening."

"I accept," Martin said. "But get handsy and it's twenty pounds an hour, forty for heavy lifting."

"Oh, Captain! Don't sell yourself short. Fifty at least, for seniority." Douglas opened the door.

"I don't know if seniority is prized in this situation, actually."

"In that case, perhaps you'd like to swap epaulets, Captain Catnip?" Douglas looked over his shoulder and saw the look on Martin's face. "Oh. Goodness."

Martin turned his collar up. "Keep walking."

"You're rather more intimidating now that I know of your army of burly lovers," Douglas mused, and Martin closed the door firmly behind them.

*

the end.


End file.
